Sherlock mets Death again and again
by P'tfami
Summary: Sherlock Holmes finds Death as his constant companion. At least whenever he's pulling stunts to prove he's too clever which is always, ergo, the constant companion. First meeting - The Swing.
1. The Swing

The Swing deserved the capital letters.

It was the archaic but sturdy type that hung from the branches of the tall beech tree outside his grandmother s house. It had jute ropes and a seat of planking worn smooth by housing the bums of past generations. The current descendant was swinging back and forth, carrying out an experiment about pendulums and parabolas. (Mycroft s physics textbook lay on the grass by his feet) .

_The child had seen an older human perform the trick on a swing last week in the park._

The swing took him higher as the breeze ruffled through his errant dark curls. Now came the tricky part - testing the theory of parabolas. If he timed it right, at the very apex of the upward swing before the inevitable drag all he had to do was let go and fly

_A somersault in mid air! of all the stupid fixations in the human world._

Darkness.

When Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, he could see the world in shades of gray and purple. A world currently being viewed between his legs. This struck him as odd because he couldn't feel any strain on his hamstring muscles (he learnt that through another 'borrowed' book on anatomy) nor could he feel any pain elsewhere though he had clearly fallen off the swing. A few false starts later, he sat up and blinked slowly.

This was not The Swing, though this too deserved the capital letters. The ropes were black like licorice strings and the seat was a curious charcoal black. No, pure ebony he realized running his hand over the grain.

His ears caught the grass rustling.

ATTEND TO ME SMALL HUMAN

It was a deep voice that went straight through your head and down your spine, did a triple somersault then completed the circuit again.

Sherlock lifted his head.

THERE HAS BEEN AN ERROR. RETURN FROM WHENCE THY CAME.

"I can see right up your nostrils." he observed conversationally. He thought for a bit and added. "Can I get my nose to look like that?" Death sighed as Sherlock focused cross eyed while jabbing his finger against his nose.

STOP THAT

Surprising himself Sherlock obeyed.

DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE?

Sherlock shrugged, gazing around with mild interest.

Death tried another tack.

YOUR MATERNAL RELATION WILL FIND YOUR ABSENCE MOST DISCONCERTING.

"So?"

YOU DO NOT SEEM VERY FRIGHTENED SMALL HUMAN.

"Why should I be? You re not scary. You don't even make woo-woo noises."

Death deflated.

That was the problem when dealing with children, especially young children. They didn't develop the mental screens that adults used around the reality of death. It was jarring and altogether embarrassing to be on the receiving end of their curiosity. He could read this one at a glance. Impressive vitality, lack of fear and total boredom. A deadly combination, if he may employ the pun.

NOW PAY ATTEN - WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Sherlock had ambled over and seated himself on the swing that overlooked Infinity.

"Push me" He ordered imperiously.

What did humans call a past experience that occurred all over again irrespective of time and space? That Quirmian term. Ah yes Deja vu...memories of Ysabel sitting on the swing, chubby legs swinging, pleas of "Puth me Father". Her eyes of frosted blue stared from the past into the present. Just like the little one now.

VERY WELL. .JUST ONE PUSH

"-himself off. He s lucky his skull didn't crack open like a melon. Master Sherlock? Are you awake, dear?"

The worried faces around his bed grinned in simultaneous relief. For a moment they looked like skeletons set in permanent grins.

"Did my skull really crack open?" he asked dreamily.


	2. The Cat

The second time that Sherlock met Death was on purpose.

The cat wriggled spiritedly in the young boys arms.

Half an hour ago, the ginger tom was wandering down the aisle in the passageway with a melancholic air when Sherlock abducted it. Several scratches later, the boy was brooding on the rashness of his decision. Soft murmurs from the bedroom down the hall indicated that the priest was still listening to the final confession of his ailing parishioner, Liam O Brian (84), head gardener of the Holmes Estate. His relatives were milling around the modest cottage, some whispering amongst themselves and others just staring into space. The same dreary, everyday sounds of a busy household now made a little quieter with the presence of the unwanted yet expected Visitor.

No one knew that they had another unwanted and unexpected visitor hiding in the spare closet.

The ginger tom suddenly ceased cleaning himself and began to purr loudly.

Everyone knows that animals can sense the supernatural. As Sherlock powered up his paranormal detection monitor, a wave of delicious excitement flooded his veins from the lethargy of the long wait. The AC magnetic field LED screen entirely failed to light up while the cat still purred loudly. A modicum of doubt infested the boys mind for the first time since he began this ambitious enterprise. The future boded ill with repeat lectures on Inappropriate Social Behaviour and Breaking and Entering slipping in cat napping for good measure. What a waste of a perfectly good afternoon,he thought sighing with disappointment.

A second, deeper sigh joined him a moment later.

WELL THIS IS AWKWARD

Sherlock jumped, twisting around in the dark like an adagio dancer and incidentally knocking over a bucket and mop to the floor making the cat yowl in terror.

HELLO AGAIN

"- !"

Which was not what Sherlock meant to say, but he had been caught by surprise. He felt a little light headed as he watched the cat curl its way around the bony ankles hidden by opaque dark robes. A bony hand dug into a hidden pocket and produced kitty kibble.

THERE'S A SATISFACTORY FELINE NO..NO ONLY ONE TREAT PER KITTY. IT IS THE RULE.

"You don t register on the magnetic field"

OH NO

"-and yet the cat picked up on your presence. Ah ha...you carry an expensive brand of cat food which rules out hallucination and addresses the fact that you are the caretaker of at least six individual breeds of cats not the pedigree variety, definitely mange on two of them judging by the scanty hairs on the ankles and the smear of lime sulphur-"

Death snapped his fingers. Sherlock tried speaking again and found he has lost his voice.

THAT IS BETTER. NOW CHILD ATTEND! YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST TO TRY AND LURE ME HERE FOR YOUR OWN PURPOSES THOUGH I COMMEND YOU ON THE ORIGINALITY OF THE METHOD. HUMANS TEND TO USE DRIBBLY CANDLES AND OUIJA BOARDS AND OTHER USELESS FLIPPERY.

He paused before adding with as much dignity as the sentence itself deserved. AND I HAPPEN TO LIKE CATS

Sherlock rolled his eyes and found he could speak again.

"Is that why cats can see you? dull."

SO SORRY FOR NOT MEETING YOUR HIGH STANDARDS OF ALTERNATIVE DIVERSION

"And you're still not scary. I don't understand the fuss everyone makes about you."

Death gazed at him levelly as Sherlock stared back. The standoff was evenly matched.

NO YOU WOULDN'T. NOT YET.

"What does that mean?"

AT WHAT POINT DOES THE SUPPLY OF OXYGEN IN AN ENCLOSED SPACE FAIL TO SUSTAIN THE HUMAN MALE?

"Well, it depends on - oh!"

When Sherlock came around, he was supported by strong arms and hysterical female voices in the background moaning about catnapping and cruel and shameless children of all things. Wasn't there a dead man in this house?

"What was the time?" he asked tonelessly, dispensing with the social niceties and giving in to blatant curiosity.

"Tis past 4:30"

"No, no" he said irritably. "Your father. What was the time of his death?"

This earned him a curious look from Samuel O Brian, (Liam O Brian s eldest of five builder by trade father of three and chain smoker by age eighteen). The hairs on Sherlock s neck stood as he sensed a presence walk out of the corner of his eye. He could have sworn he saw the blue spark wink.

"Lad, my father's fine never felt better he says. As fer you. Well, its no been a picnic being holed up in a closet with a deid cat now hasn 't it?"


	3. The Companion

Disclaimer: I don't own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle nor Sir Terry Pratchett's greatest creations. Just the contents of my imagination.

Friendly Warning: Mild innuendo ahead.

-AND A GREATER ONION IS FIVE PICTURE CARDS AND FIVE ACES.

The single candle flame flutters in the dark while the cards are distributed.

AS I RECALL FROM THE RULE BOOK YOU MUST DEAL A NINE CARD RUNNING FLUSH TO TRUMPH THE GREATER OR LESSER ONION.

A pair of solemn eyes in a young face regards his smug opponent.

"Blackjack with elements of Poker."

AH! ASSUMING YOU ADVANCED THUS FAR TO GAIN A TEN CARD FLUSH.

"Dull."

Electric blue eyes glowed within the sockets of the grinning skull (1). Death sighed and examined his cards.

The candle light threw Death and his companion into sharp relief from the rest of the room which happened to be Death's personal office. Death did not often get mortal visitors into his realm, except for the morbidly curious, the recklessly brave and cats. Sherlock Holmes shared at least two characteristics with the aforementioned while bearing a passing resemblance to the third.(2)

"A-hem"

A short crab legged figure nudged open the door holding up a tray.

"Tea, Master?" Albert glanced disdainfully at the boy. "And for yer _guest_?"

THANK YOU ALBERT

The thing is, he thought as Albert handed him his cup ("You've been dead for a long time" said the boy) there was no actual rule that barred mortals from his realm. ("Still breathing aren't I? replied his assistant sourly."now what will yer have?") Mortals down the ages had resorted to incantations and dribbly candles to summon him for bargains. They snarled or begged it didn't matter in the end. ("Black coffee , two sugars please") It never went well. ("Foul muck! It'll stunt yer growth") The same old games with detailed rules and addendums that left no room for loopholes when the stakes were high.("What an astonishing hypothesis based on hearsay and idiocy, I'm surprised you can talk and breathe at the same time") Some mortals though, liked to play the game for the games sake.

"Master!" said Albert breathing heavily.

HMM?

"Permission to clip our honoured guest round the earhole for cheek."

Death frowned.

HOW ABOUT SUGGESTING ANOTHER GAME INSTEAD?

"What happened to the usual ones? Don't tell me-" he gasped .

Albert rounded on Sherlock who was investigating the viscosity of the custard creams and the jammy dodgers. "You finally beat the Master in a game!" He exclaimed with awe. "How did a little tick like you even manage it?"

ALBERT

"The odds of that happening are a million to one. The last person who tried that-"

ALBERT

"Come one then, what was it? Immortal life, eternal riches, wimmin? Bit young for wimmin, you haven't even dropped your-"

ALBERT

"Are you quite finished?" sighed Sherlock, rubbing his curly locks in frustration. "You're teetering dangerously close to being boring for an ex wizard. An ex-wizard who's supposed to be dead."

"Now none of that, young sir" Albert cooed. "I'm just making conversation though I gotta ask. Why're yer still playing cards if you won?"

I HAVE NEITHER WON NOR LOST THE GAME ALBERT

"What?"

AND NEITHER HAS MASTER SHERLOCK HOLMES

"Then what's-"

WE ARE - WHAT IS THE PHRASE - 'PASSING THE TIME' HIGHLY INACCURATE AS THAT IS IN THEORY

Albert tried resisting the urge to roll his eyes and failed."What are the stakes, then?"

"I want Death as my assistant."

Albert's mouth worked wordlessly before releasing a bark of laughter.

"That's a good 'un. And what about me you cheeky little bugger? I'll be out of a job."

Sherlock frowned. "Death doesn't have any requirements. He's not human. He's not even alive technically."

Albert sucked in his breath while Death lay down his cards and stomped out of the room.

"Now you've done it." He muttered over the sound of the distant crash of the backdoor."You didn't have to upset him, you know. He gets sensitive about these things."

"Sensitive? How can an anthropomorphic personification have feelings?"

"Why do want the Master as an assistant?"

"I asked you first."

"Why pick the Master? you literally throw yourself into his path several times over, he puts up with your frankly idiotic whims and now he's sulking because you've upset him. So yes, he does have feelings you little sod. Now answer mine." He growled.

Albert and Sherlock traded eyeball for eyeball. Albert had longer experience than the boy who reluctantly broke eye contact, then pursed his lips and stared at the infinite ceiling for five minutes.

"Because he's not an idiot" he said finally.

Albert nodded.(3) and sidled towards the door.

"You can see yourself out." He said "I'll be in the garden getting out the beekeeping gear."

"You chose to be here."

Albert paused, hand on the doorknob.

"I don't understand. I thought Death was the last enemy. Why would you choose to be here with him?"

Albert smiled.

"Come back when you get yourself a friend."

Sherlock woke up in his bedroom.

As his heart slowed its rapid pace, he looked over the contents of the room to reassure himself. The periodic table on the wall, bunsen beakers interspersed among stuffed bookcases and cluttered desks. He could hear the faint snores of the other boarders down the hall. A family portrait caught the sliver of moonlight drifting through the drawn curtains. It was the only personal item in the room because the cracked glass frame had to be replaced.

"A friend?" he whispered to himself in the dark.

(1) The ultimate poker face.

(2) Such as the uncanny ability to be in places he should not be. Such as Death's mansion. Or his beehives. He suspected the boys true genealogy

(3) Something feral definitely sheathed its claws.


End file.
